


Unaddressed

by robocryptid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Edging, Invasion of Privacy, Love Letters, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mentions of Hanzo's not-quite-death wish, Missing in Action, Pining, Shimada Brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-02 14:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: He gave twelve years of his life to the original Overwatch. He’s seen dozens of MIA cases, investigated more than a few of them himself. It’s not new. It’s just that now the organization’s so small; it makes it feel a lot more personal.Winston gave the order. He can’t argue with the logic that he’s the one whose background best fits this particular task. But it was Genji asking him directly — trusting him with this in a way he knows it’s hard for Genji to trust — that made him agree to it.So he rummages through Hanzo’s desk in search of anything that could help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "unsent letters." In a [Twitter poll](https://twitter.com/robocryptid/status/1178707968390582275?s=20), folks voted that Hanzo should be the letter-writer, and in particular [CommonNonsense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense/works) said some things [here](https://twitter.com/NonsenseCommon/status/1178770320473251840?s=20) that made it into this fic.

#

i.

It feels wrong to walk into the room uninvited. Everything in it is too still, as if frozen in time, waiting for the man who lives here to return. There’s no window, but there’s still a row of small pots beneath a grow light. A quick check with Athena tells him the light runs on a timer, but there’s no timer for watering them. 

He fills the small watering can from the bathroom tap, and with Athena’s guidance he waters each. It’s finicky. Each plant needs a different amount. 

It’s not technically what he’s here for, but it seems rude to let them shrivel up. 

He checks the desk first, not quite sure what he’s looking for. It’s not the first job he’s had to start by flying blind. Not even the first time he’s had to do it for this reason.

He gave twelve years of his life to the original Overwatch. He’s seen dozens of MIA cases, investigated more than a few of them himself. It’s not new. It’s just that now the organization’s so small; it makes it feel a lot more personal. 

Winston gave the order. He can’t argue with the logic that he’s the one whose background best fits this particular task. But it was Genji asking him directly — trusting him with this in a way he knows it’s hard for Genji to trust — that made him agree to it.

So he rummages through Hanzo’s desk in search of anything that could help, any evidence of where Hanzo might go if he couldn’t get back to Overwatch, who he might turn to for aid, threats he might have received. Plane tickets or hotel reservations are too much to hope for, but he wouldn’t hate to find some piece of correspondence. Hell, even a matchbook. What he finds are empty drawers.

The bedside table isn’t empty, but neither is it helpful. He smirks at the unopened box of condoms. Aside from revealing Hanzo’s apparent wishful thinking, there’s no story here.

Nothing falls out of the dog-eared novel on the nightstand. It’s spotless under the bed. The only thing his bathroom reveals is that his shampoo probably costs more than all Jesse’s toiletries combined. 

All that’s left now is his closet. Jesse’s hopeful when he spots the box on the shelf above, but it’s only a valet housing several expensive-looking watches and cufflinks. It’s amusing, considering he’s never seen Hanzo in anything fancier than a nice pair of jeans, but there are no engravings or anything to reveal something more than that Hanzo owns accessories he never wears. Hardly a unique feature.

There’s a spare blanket folded on the shelf too, huge and fluffy enough that it can’t be the one that came with the room. When Jesse pulls it down, it’s far too heavy. “Gotcha.”

Wrapped in the blanket is a wooden box almost as long as Jesse’s forearm. There’s a lock on it, but it’s flimsy, the kind of lock that exists mostly for peace of mind. It’s obviously only effective against someone polite enough to respect his privacy in the first place. 

Jesse is not that person. Not under these circumstances. He tosses the blanket aside, sits on Hanzo’s bed, and opens the box.

He groans when he sees the whole stack of notebooks inside, and he hopes instead that the objects will help him out. There’s an arrowhead, obviously one of Hanzo’s. Jesse thinks the miniature snowglobe might be the clue he’s looking for until he realizes he knows where it came from: Mei gave it to Hanzo after a mission. There’s a D.Va keychain, a label from a bottle of sake, a doodle on a napkin with what looks like Lena’s handwriting. 

He hadn’t expected Hanzo to be the sentimental type, especially with the sparseness of the rest of the room. It feels invasive, picking through these things. It feels like the box holds Hanzo’s heart, and nobody gave Jesse permission to touch it.

When the keepsakes don’t offer any immediate clues, Jesse pulls the first notebook free. There are loose pages stuffed into the stitch bound notebook, more haphazard than he would’ve expected. He’s careful not to jostle any loose as he opens the notebook. 

He has to use his comm to read the first page, scanning and translating Japanese to English in real time, words clustering and shifting as greater context makes the precise translation more apparent. It feels worse than opening the box did. Jesse wonders if any of these letters made it to their subject, or if they were only practice for things Hanzo wanted to say. He wonders if Hanzo’s ever said any of this to Genji’s face. 

He’s five pages in, skin crawling with the invasion of privacy without any clues to show for it, when he comes across one written in English. There’s no name, no designation of who it’s for. 

> _ I dreamed last night that we got to redo the day we met. This time we kissed, and I woke up smiling. _
> 
> _If I were a capable poet, I might find a way to describe how that kiss felt._

He shuts the notebook. His heart pounds in his throat. 

This feels different somehow. The letters to Genji are private, but they don’t express anything a close observer couldn’t guess. They’re full of remorse and gratitude in equal measure, as well as clumsy efforts to reconnect with someone Hanzo didn’t speak to for a decade. 

Those letters make sense. But this one feels like something no one else is meant to know. 

It takes him so long to process that he nearly forgets it might count as a clue. Unlike the letters to Genji, this one’s in English. Almost certainly a shared language with the addressee, and an indication that he might have meant to send it at some point. 

The letters to Genji suggest they were written recently, and this letter is still threaded into the notebook. Written after those, then. Within the past few months. 

There’s a person this letter was written for. If they aren’t someone here at the Watchpoint, it might be a lead. 

Jesse flips the notebook back open. The next letter is for Genji again, this time recounting a memory of a festival they attended as children. It’s sweet, and it reveals nothing new. 

_ Most _of the letters are to Genji. Some of them are obviously drafts, repetitive in places. Sometimes angrier or more remorseful than the previous version. Jesse tries to skim them quickly, leave Hanzo what semblance of privacy he can, but he’s stricken over and over by the unexpected vulnerability from someone whose sole outward emotion is often anger. 

Maybe this is why he writes things out the way he does: as a way to organize thoughts and feelings he’s not equipped to deal with any other way. Jesse can empathize with that, although his own writing isn’t nearly this intimate. His is more a way to keep his brain busy when things are slow. There’s nothing quite like idleness to invite the demons in his head.

A third of the way through, Jesse finds that the rest of the notebook is blank, and he’s suddenly struck by something glaringly obvious in hindsight. This is on top because it’s the one Hanzo’s still using. It’s the newest. There are three other notebooks to go through, and a quick flip through them shows they’re all full.

“Prolific son of a bitch,” Jesse mutters before he’s instantly slapped by guilt. He’s already figured Hanzo’s working through some shit here, and if there’s a lot of writing, that’s just a sign he’s doing the work, isn’t it? 

There’s no reason he has to read these sitting in Hanzo’s room, though. He packs up the keepsakes and puts the box back where he found it, minus the stack of notebooks. Those he bundles together and tucks under one arm, off in search of a better reading spot. It feels good to get out of that room, but he feels as if he’s exposing something private of Hanzo’s just by carrying the notebooks down the hallway. 

In his own room, he pours a glass of bourbon, and he opens the notebook at the bottom of the stack this time. The first letter here _ looks _ different, the lines thin and frantic, ink smudged in places, and the translator tells him it’s another letter to Genji. A few sentences in, Jesse thinks it might be the _ first _letter to Genji. There’s disbelief in every line, fear that Hanzo’s grief has finally driven him to wild delusions. It has to have been written shortly after Genji visited him in Hanamura. 

Genji’s never told Jesse everything that went down there, only that he revealed himself and asked Hanzo to join Overwatch. The way Hanzo tells it, things weren’t that simple. He thought he was going to die. The letter is pages and pages long, near raving in places, the form of the words as erratic as their meaning. 

There are places the pen has carved straight through the paper, and a little cluster of wrinkled circles. The remains of something wet hitting the paper. Jesse unthinkingly rubs his thumb over one of them. Anguish bleeds off the page, and Jesse only realizes he’s been holding his breath when he reaches the final line:

> _ You should have killed me. _

“Jesus.” His next sip of bourbon is more like a gulp, and it doesn’t go down as smooth as it should. 

The next several letters are just as harrowing as the first. (_It was crueler to leave me alive. Is this your revenge?_)

Hanzo processes the revelation that his brother still lived by cycling through the same stages of grief most people experience when a loved one dies. (_Of course you cannot even leave me to grieve. Of course even my greatest misdeed was only another failure._)

He’s twenty-six pages and three fingers of bourbon in before there’s any change of pace, and he lets out a heavy breath at the sight of a name other than Genji’s on the page. His relief does not last long.

> _ Shimada Yosuke gave the order. — Dead. _
> 
> _ Shimada Jun supported the order. — Dead. _
> 
> _ Hayashi Umeko supported the order. — Dead, cancer. _
> 
> _ Shimada Kaito supported the order. — Dead. _

The list continues down the page, each person’s name alongside their role in Genji’s near murder, each followed by a note on their present status. A scattered few have more information — cancer, pneumonia, “very old” — but most are merely “Dead.” The only reason to distinguish some is if they’re the exception to some rule. 

It’s a kill list. One in which nearly every name is a Shimada. Jesse’d bet the rest are still closely linked to the family. 

There’s no list of future targets. Either Hanzo got all of them, or he’s only marking off the successes. Jesse snaps a picture and sends it to Genji. _ Anyone missing? _he texts along with it. 

Without an immediate response, he trudges forward. The letters to Genji aren’t only fraught with a thousand emotions; they’re also _ exhausting_. He likes to think of himself as an empathetic man, to a point, but he’s never given this much thought to Hanzo’s inner life. 

Now it’s here, laid bare on the page. _ Hanzo’s _ laid bare, and it casts him in a light that’s far too intimate for Jesse’s comfort. In truth he’s never _ wanted _to empathize with Hanzo on this level. Maybe he always knew deep down it’d be this damn grim. 

Maybe he always knew deep down that they shared a morbid streak. It’s not a death wish, not quite. Hanzo wanted to die to Genji, but he doesn’t want to die in general — if anything, Jesse’d guess Hanzo’s _ afraid _ to before he makes good. But they share a certainty that when it comes, it’ll be long overdue and well deserved. 

He’s almost managed to numb himself to the content of these early letters when he comes across one written in English and damn near does a spit take. This is addressed to one Dr. Angela Ziegler.

It’s frustrated and full of false starts. Slashes through words and furious scribbles, notes in the margins, Hanzo working desperately to find words that are never quite enough. Halfway down the page, the only thing left legible is a single, emphatic _ Thank you_.

The next letter has no name, but it too is in English.

> _ I do not believe you like me very much, but I respect that more than if you had welcomed me with open arms. I am grateful to you for what you have done, and I think, in another life _

The letter stops there, as if Hanzo was interrupted. Or as if he wasn’t sure what to write next, or ready to admit it even on paper. 

There’s page after page of letters to Genji, and not one of them says anything useful or even particularly new by now. They’re all variations on a theme. The notion that Hanzo’s using these letters as some kind of therapeutic practice only solidifies with each passing letter. 

But then there’s another in English:

> _ Yesterday I watched you in the field. I watched you put yourself in danger to rescue innocents. Some of us lose sight of them in battle, but not you. _
> 
> _ I thought I had set these feelings aside, but it was a foolish thing to believe. _

A few pages in, another:

> _ You put liquor in your coffee this morning. I should find it distasteful, but like so much else about you, it was charming instead. I have seen how hard you work. I admire it. Enjoy your simple pleasures. _

And another:

> _ I think about telling you, and then I imagine the pity in your eyes. I am not sure I could bear to see it in reality. _

Buried between pages of grief and anger is another ache, the kind that Jesse knows from experience is practically addictive: thrill and agony side by side. (_You mend my heart only to break it._) Hanzo is in love with someone, and Jesse knows exactly who it is.

ii.

The only possible lead in the first notebook is the kill list. There’s still the object of Hanzo’s affection, but they’re here at the Watchpoint. The timing of the letters would make that obvious even if Hanzo never mentioned any missions.

Jesse takes a break from reading to get some dinner. He’s poking at warmed over chili and trying to digest all he’s read when Angie and Fareeha plop down across from him. Fareeha looks as well rested as ever, and Angie looks as hassled as ever: bags under her eyes and blonde hair falling free of her ponytail, and yet... 

Jesse gets it, really. He’s never once considered barking up that particular tree, but he fully understands. Even at her most frazzled and poorly rested, Angela Ziegler is radiant. Smart as hell, genuine in her compassion for people, hard-working; if Hanzo’s letters are to be believed, even her distaste for Hanzo represents something he approves of. 

She splashes a little bit of liquor into her tea — and if Jesse knows her at all, it’s brandy for tea and whiskey for coffee — then she waggles the flask at Fareeha and Jesse, smiling like she’s getting away with something she shouldn’t. Jesse feels the fondness swell alongside a funny pang he’s not sure he can name. He waves off her offer mostly because he’s still got a bottle waiting for him back in his room, and he’s not trying to get drunk as much as make the stuff he’s been reading go down easier. 

“How is the investigation?” Angie asks. 

“We might have a lead, but it ain’t much yet.” Jesse shrugs and doesn’t say more. Hanzo went to a lot of pains to hide even the existence of the notebooks. Jesse’s not going to violate that any more than he already has. 

“Poor Genji,” she sighs.

He doesn’t overlook that there’s no _ poor Hanzo _to go with it, but he doesn’t say anything about it either.

iii.

He takes notebook number two outside with him along with a cigar and a mug of coffee. Bourbon might ease the way for dealing with Hanzo’s issues, but it’s going to be too long a night to do it without caffeine. 

This one opens with another unaddressed letter.

> _ My brother thinks I need to socialize more. He says he cannot be my only company if we are ever going to repair things, and he is right. I am trying, but I don’t want any other company than yours. _
> 
> _ It is infuriating. _
> 
> _ I have not desired anyone else’s approval since doing so drove me to hurt my brother. I don’t know why I should suddenly need it now, and from someone so intent on withholding it. _
> 
> _ You may be right to disapprove, but some days I still resent it. _

Jesse snorts. Maybe he shouldn’t be amused by Hanzo’s frustration, but it’s a better fit with Jesse’s mental profile of him than any of the moping was. 

There’s more for Genji after that, and he skims but finds nothing useful for his current endeavor. He learns Hanzo likes animals, though, from a fond retelling of some long-ago time when he and Genji begged their father for a dog. The glimpses into the brothers’ past slowly reveal little details that Jesse realizes he already knows about his other teammates, but would never have known about Hanzo without reading his letters. 

He enjoys food that reminds him of the rare pleasant childhood memory. He has opinions about omnics and their related politics, and those opinions have shifted since learning his brother is a cyborg. He thinks he resembled their mother as an adolescent, and he hates that he favors their father more now. He’s ambivalent about Overwatch, at first because he is skeptical of their goals, then because he is skeptical of the limits of their reach; he regularly wonders how their purpose measures up against their illegal status. Hanzo observes far more than he lets on, and he struggles to process it all against his particularly twisted experience of humanity, but he certainly _ tries_. 

Amid half a dozen letters to Genji, there’s a letter to Zenyatta, as stilted and full of scribbles as the one addressed to Angela, and just as grateful too.

When Jesse finally reaches the next unaddressed letter, the sheer aggression in it startles a laugh out of him.

> _ You are a stubborn, judgmental, unreasonable fool. Why you? Are these feelings some cosmic punishment? _
> 
> _ Fuck you too. _

He thinks the next letter will be just as amusing, but instead it makes something uncomfortable twist in his chest.

> _ You apologized. _
> 
> _ Every time I think I can finally move beyond my feelings, you are unexpectedly kind, and the cycle begins again. _
> 
> _ It is crueler than when you were only ever cold. _

The next letter is to Mei, praising her kindness in the face of a cold world. After that is one to Lena, and the theme is the same. Then Reinhardt, then Lúcio, and on and on through each of their teammates. They are brief and sometimes awkward, but it seems something made Hanzo determined to appreciate each of them in turn. 

When he reaches the one addressed to him, Jesse lets out a breath, and he’s surprised to find he was holding it in the first place. 

> _ McCree, _
> 
> _ Sometimes I almost think we could be friends. _

There are marks on the page where it appears Hanzo set his pen down and picked it back up, but there are no more words. Jesse flips to the next page only to find Hanzo’s resumed his letters to Genji. There’s also evidence that several pages have been ripped from the notebook, as if Hanzo couldn’t bear to keep, even in secret, whatever those pages held.

Jesse’s letter is the shortest of all. It’s barely a letter; it’s practically a fucking footnote. He feels it like Hanzo hit him.

Worse, he’s not sure he doesn’t deserve it. 

Jesse was definitely in the camp of folks less-than-pleased to meet Hanzo and less-than-willing to give him any more of a chance than they absolutely _ had _to for Genji’s sake. But that was months ago. Jesse’s been nicer since. Sometimes he’s even gone out of his way to do it, because he’s always kind of suspected Hanzo feels a little isolated even among his teammates. 

It occurs to him that there’s no way to know when this was written. It could’ve been last week, but it easily could’ve been six months ago. Given the sheer number of pages left to go, the latter seems more likely. He lets that soothe his injured pride as he packs up to head back inside. The breeze has picked up, and he’s restless after the caffeine anyway.

Determined as he is to shake it off, the phrase keeps echoing in his head: _ Sometimes I almost think we could be friends. _

iv.

Genji finally texts back, _ Missing an uncle and a few cousins. Thank you. _

Jesse rubs at his eyes and keeps reading, but there are no more clues to go on, and he finally falls asleep with the notebook splayed open on his chest. When he wakes, it’s still dark out, and he makes himself go through five more pages before he’s allowed to get out of bed. 

He’s not looking for his own name to appear again. Not that or the unaddressed letters. He’s just… staying on task. 

He doesn’t find his name, but he does find more for Hanzo’s unnamed crush. These are as frustrated as the last, anger practically vibrating off the page. 

> _ I haven’t felt for another person in so long that sometimes I’m almost grateful to be reminded it’s even possible. Then I remember that it’s you. _
> 
> _ Stubborn, rude. You think you know everything. Smug. _
> 
> _ It’s a curse. There are days I don’t even like you. There are days when I am disgusted with myself for it. _
> 
> _ You may be kinder now than before, but some barriers can never be crossed. I don’t want your pity or your disdain or whatever it is you feel for me. I only want to stop caring. _

There are more missing pages after that. Jesse sighs and takes a shower. 

He can’t stop thinking about the missing pages, though. He wants to know what’s on them. What is so secret that Hanzo cannot even share it in this private space he’s crafted? 

His conviction that the letters are for Angela hasn’t swayed, even now that Hanzo’s written other letters to other teammates. She’s the only one who makes sense to him. Jesse wonders if it’d be nicer to tell Hanzo she just doesn’t like _ men_; at least then he could put all that anguish into a simpler context. Might help him move on. 

But that would mean admitting that he read the letters at all, and he’s not sure he’s going to do that. Honesty might be the right thing to do, but maybe lying by omission will leave Hanzo with some dignity intact. Maybe there’s some other way to drop the hint.

He’s not sure why it matters. He’s not sure why he’s still thinking about it at all. It’s bad enough that Jesse’s stuck reading so much about Hanzo’s private life; it’s worse that it’s invading his thoughts elsewhere. 

After the shower he makes some coffee, then he’s back to reading. 

There’s a story of an old argument Hanzo and Genji once had. One story about their mother, a memory Genji would have been too young to have firsthand. Another about an old instructor of theirs. The details of a mission Hanzo went on without Genji. 

Jesse stops skimming and goes back, resetting the comm’s translator and beginning the scan again. It’s not that he cares so much about the mission details; it’s what’s at the end that matters. 

> _ I think I am in love, brother. I don’t know how to know for sure. _
> 
> _ Perhaps this was not what you intended when you told me to socialize. I’m not sure I can tell you outside of writing either. Maybe you will not care. Maybe you will care a great deal. Maybe you think that I do not deserve someone. _
> 
> _ For what it’s worth, I don’t think I deserve someone either. We both know what happened to the last person I loved. _

Jesse recoils like someone slapped him, and it only gets worse in the pages that follow. The next is unaddressed and in English again.

> _ I love you. I have come to terms with this. I do not know what it means. I hope it is temporary, but it seems best for now to accept it as fact and move forward. I don’t expect reciprocation. _
> 
> _ Even if you do not like me, it is enough that you treat me like I am a person, not a monster. Even though you know what I did. _
> 
> _ Sometimes I dream about it exactly as it was. Sometimes I dream about it, except someone else is in Genji’s place. Last night it was you. _
> 
> _ I loved him. I am sure some find that difficult to believe, but I did. I loved him, and I did it anyway. _
> 
> _ Would I sacrifice you too if someone applied the right pressure? _

Jesse sucks in a breath through his teeth, and then he sits back. He feels tired again already, absorbing months of emotional processing in the span of hours. There aren’t many pages left in this notebook, and at least the rest are easier to read.

There are no more torn out pages, and no more letters to anyone but Genji. Maybe Hanzo only needed to get all of that out to settle his mind. Lance the wound so it can start healing. In any case, Jesse reaches the end of the second book with no more hint of where Hanzo might be than before, only a cluttered mind and a troubled heart.


	2. Chapter 2

#

v.

> _ There is a picture of you in Winston’s office. The uniform looks good on you. _

Jesse snorts. This is the first thing Hanzo has to say to anyone other than Genji in nearly a dozen letters. He’s stopped trying to convince himself he’s not curious to read more of these in particular. The letter immediately following doesn’t disappoint.

> _ Sometimes I think I see you looking. _
> 
> _ Sometimes you smile and I think… maybe. _
> 
> _ These are not grand gestures, and even they may be imagined. _
> 
> _ I do not like to hope. You will remind me of the reality soon enough. You always do. _

It strikes him that it has taken Hanzo two notebooks and some change to bring up physical attraction. It’s not impressive exactly, but it certainly sells the depth of Hanzo’s feelings. If someone asked Jesse to sit down and come up with a list of Hanzo’s positive attributes, he would have started with the purely physical. It doesn’t quite make him feel guilty, but he does think that maybe this is why Hanzo’s the one doing the writing and Jesse’s the one who’s only ever gotten to read a real life love letter as a snooping third party.

> _ I almost told you today. Almost, almost. _
> 
> _ You looked very sad, but I am not the one who gets to comfort you. I am not even sure where to begin. _
> 
> _ I am not sure anyone is sure with you. I think you try very hard not to need it, and most others would prefer to believe you. _
> 
> _ What would you do if I told you I didn’t believe you? Would you let me take care of you? _

Jesse nearly shuts the book. There’s an ache down to his bones; it feels like nostalgia for something he never actually had.

It’s one thing to be smacked with the proof that Hanzo is capable of complex human emotions. One thing to discover there’s a hidden romantic under all the anger, someone who lives with a desire to care for someone and a paradoxical fear that he will fail at it. It’s a distressingly familiar sentiment.

Hanzo doesn’t trust himself any more than anyone else here does. Probably less than some. And yet there’s this part of them that aches to connect with someone. To _ take care _ of them. Despite the incredible shortcomings in Hanzo’s interpersonal skills, he is capable of seeing beneath the surface of someone else and loving that part. 

Jesse finishes the third notebook in a daze, unable to shove all the thoughts to the back of his mind. They finally crystallize with Hanzo’s own words:

> _ I know some of your past, although I am hardly your favorite audience. I see that it troubles you. _
> 
> _ I have seen the worst parts of myself. There is nothing you could confess that I could not accept. _

vi.

Jesse reads until his vision starts to blur. He starts again at the beginning, but there are no clues he overlooked the first time: the kill list remains their only lead. In the days that follow, with nothing else to occupy his mind or his time, he reads and rereads.

He can admit it has nothing to do with the mission any more. 

On the second or third pass, sometimes the letters make him wonder if they’re all actually to the same person. They make him second-guess his belief that they’re for Angela. Their most specific passages emphasize Hanzo’s feelings, not the subject’s characteristics. 

Who knows how many of them have had the kind of morning where they needed to spike their coffee to get through? Who knows how many of them have given Hanzo the cold shoulder, or put themselves in harm’s way for an innocent person? It could be any of them, and that’s assuming he can trust Hanzo’s assessment to be completely accurate.

Because that’s the thing about romantic feelings, isn’t it? They romanticize, especially given enough time to linger and pine. Especially when you have to hold them in. 

There are times when he’s reading that something within Jesse rings with recognition. Times when that same something demands to be heard. Those times make him realize he is a fool. He’s no more reliable an interpreter than Hanzo is. 

He can recognize the wishful thinking that’s biasing him, but he can’t place what the wishful thinking is about, precisely. He’s lonely, he knows. Exaggerated or not, nobody’s ever shared these kinds of feelings with him. So much of what Hanzo writes are things Jesse’s wanted, deep down, for someone to say to him.

What’s unclear is whether it’s _ someone _ or Hanzo. The shock of discovering that Hanzo has all this buried inside him has forced him to... reassess. 

Jesse’s always found him attractive. So much so that he used to be annoyed by it — by the traitorous part of him that can look at Hanzo and see anything more than a fratricidal monster. So much so that he’s felt guilty, ashamed, like he has to hide it away because it feels like he’s betraying Genji to even think of it in the shallowest terms. 

Genji doesn’t care. Or wouldn’t, if he knew. But still, until very recently, it always felt like he was doing something wrong to even consider it. Jesse can rationalize all he wants; his gut still insists on shame. 

And now. Now it’s conflicted shame. Because Hanzo has these feelings for someone, and chances are higher they’re for someone else than that they’re for Jesse, and here he is thinking about whether he’s allowed to let himself off the hook for maybe sometimes attaching Hanzo’s face to a run of the mill jerkoff fantasy. 

He’d be lying to himself if he tried to pretend that’s all this is though. On some level he wants those letters to be for him. He wants someone to tell him off when he deserves it, to tell him he’s not as bad as his demons say he is. He wants someone to know what it’s like to fuck up and keep trying and someone who still believes that Jesse is trying to do good. Wants someone who has this sort of unshakable faith in him, even knowing he’s not perfect, even if they’re mad at him sometimes. 

He wants someone to love him the way Hanzo’s clearly capable of loving someone. 

vii.

He has favorite passages now. He’s taken pictures of them to save once this is all over, put them on his comm behind multiple passwords so nobody else has to know how far beyond due diligence he’s gone. How much he’s let Hanzo get under his skin. 

He’s also been back to Hanzo’s room a couple times over the past several days. Jesse’s still watering his plants. He couldn’t tell a soul why, but he does it, and it makes him feel good to have done it. 

He has pictures, and he’s been back to Hanzo’s room more than once, and yet he still hasn’t convinced himself to put the notebooks back.

The stupidest part is that Hanzo isn’t even here. There’s always been a voice in the back of his head whenever anyone’s gone too long; it tells him this is it, he’s never gonna see them again. He can keep the voice quiet as long as he stays busy, but it gets louder with every passing day. 

Hanzo’s not here, but he’s taken up residence in Jesse’s head and won’t get out. It feels like it happened too fast, but Jesse’s not actually sure it did. He thinks he knew, before, that Hanzo was at least more than the angry austerity on the surface, and different from the man who tried to kill Genji. Why else would Jesse have accepted Genji’s story or the boundaries Genji put down? Why else would he have done no more than bristle with anger but keep his mouth shut?

But that’s a far cry from sitting with the knowledge of what the letters contain. Jesse didn’t do anything to earn that level of intimacy. 

viii.

Jesse’s comm goes off while he’s elbow-deep in engine parts, adding his experience in amateur tinkering to Torbjörn’s expertise. He’s covered in grease, which turns out to be a blessing in disguise. It means he doesn’t get to his comm right away, and Torbjörn won’t see his reaction.

When he’s finally scrubbed his hands and dug both oil and gritty soap out from the creases of his prosthetic knuckles, he finally gets to check his comm. When he reads the message, he has to sit down.

They found Hanzo. They’re bringing him home. 

The kill list helped after all. 

As useless as Jesse’s felt, it’s a relief. It’s a relief, too, to know that his compulsive reading served some greater purpose than to satisfy his own curiosity. It seems to justify it all in hindsight.

He’s aware, of course, that it doesn’t justify his keeping the notebooks. He knows he should have put them back in Hanzo’s room by now, but he hasn’t quite been able to convince himself to do so. He’s been telling himself they might still need them, but that excuse appears precisely as flimsy as it is now that Hanzo’s coming back.

There’s time, though. Time to put them back before Hanzo gets here and finds them missing. Jesse still wonders if it’s the right thing to do. The longer he has them, the more he believes he should tell Hanzo that he’s read them. If nothing else, it will clear some air between them; he’s not sure he wants Hanzo to go on thinking Jesse’s dismissed him out of hand, and there’s no other way to explain his change in perspective.

Mostly, though, it’s just that he’s selfish and likes to feel the paper under his fingers. The pictures he took won’t recreate that particular sensation.

The day they bring Hanzo back in, they take him straight to the medbay. Jesse’s not even around to see him. He hears secondhand that Hanzo will be in there at least until the following morning.

Jesse makes sure to water his plants one more time, but he doesn’t put the notebooks back.

ix.

He waits until everyone who’s gonna visit has left before he dares to go see Hanzo in the medbay. He wonders if he should put this off, wait until Hanzo’s well enough before he drops this invasion of privacy on him too, but selfishly Jesse wants to get it over with. And maybe to see for himself that he’s doing okay.

Hanzo looks surprised to see him, eyes going wide before they narrow and drop straight to the shopping bag Jesse’s carrying. Right. Of course. Jesse’s been stuck with the Hanzo in his head and in the notebooks for so long that he almost forgot how suspicious he can be. He’s bristling under Jesse’s gaze, and his face draws up tight with pain when he shifts uncomfortably.

It’s not a great start.

Hanzo’s the one who finally breaks the awkward silence. “I was not expecting you.”

“Yeah. I bet not.” 

He doesn’t know why he said it, and he takes no satisfaction in the way Hanzo visibly withdraws. Still, it’s sort of impressive, the way Hanzo collects himself, spine straightening the best it can in the hospital bed. 

He still isn’t quite looking at Jesse when he says, “I hear you’re the one who located me. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.” Jesse winces at that too. It wasn’t nothing. Certainly not to the person whose life he helped save, but not to him either. He can’t un-know the things he had to learn to make it possible. He clears his throat and braces for impact. “About that, though.” He sets the shopping bag on the table beside the bed, and he pulls out one of the notebooks just enough that Hanzo can see what it is. “Thought you should have these back.”

Hanzo looked drawn and sick already, but his face somehow goes even paler. There’s a muscle at his temple that tics as he clenches his jaw. “I wondered how you could have known.” His voice is tight, and he looks like he might be nauseated.

“Sorry. If we’d found any other clues first, I wouldn’t—” Jesse stops himself, because he figures that’s not actually the part that’s bothering Hanzo. He switches tactics. “Nobody else knows these even exist. They won’t either. Not from me. You mighta heard I’m pretty good with secrets.” He tries a reassuring smile.

Hanzo doesn’t appear reassured. He isn’t even really looking at Jesse. “Thank you.” He shuts his eyes and takes a shuddery breath. It might be pain, but Jesse suspects otherwise. When Hanzo’s eyes open again, they’re finally on Jesse’s face. “Is that everything?”

It’s hard to tell what Hanzo’s searching for. Jesse can think of a dozen things to ask him — about how many feelings he buries behind the anger, about the unaddressed letters, about the one and only line he wrote to Jesse — but it’s obvious that this is humiliating enough. “I read it all,” he says instead of asking. “Some of it, um. More than once.” He flinches even as he says it, and Hanzo does the same. “Maybe you don’t wanna hear this from me, but I don’t agree that you deserve to be alone. I think if maybe you let people see all that stuff you write about, you might— things might be easier. And I think you’re right. That we could be friends.”

Hanzo makes a noise, surprise or disbelief or something closely related. “I don’t need your pity, McCree.”

“It’s not.”

“If you haven’t noticed, I have friends here. They simply aren’t you.”

Jesse doesn’t know what to say to that. In his surprise, he thought he was discovering things about Hanzo that nobody else knew. But maybe plenty of people knew; maybe Jesse was just too stubborn to see it before. “You’re right. I’m sorry I didn’t give you a fair shake before now.”

Hanzo scoffs. “I do not care about what you think is fair.” He’s staring down at his hands now, which are curled into fists on his lap. “Are we finished here?”

“Yes? No.” He lets out a quiet laugh, nervous and feeling stupid for it. “No, I also wanted to say that… whoever it is you’re writin’ to, they’re a lucky person. Lotta people would kill to have someone think those things about them.”

Hanzo’s nose scrunches. “_Whoever_—” Then he shakes his head and laughs too, bitter and biting. “Are you—”

They both jump at the sound of the heavy door opening. Angela stands there, clipboard in hand, and she has one eyebrow arched in Jesse’s direction. “Visiting time is over.”

He thinks about arguing. About asking for more time. But Hanzo’s shoulders are hunched by his ears, and his face is pale with pain, and his eyes are wide on Angie like she’s some kind of saving grace. He’s so much brighter when he looks at her, relief clear across his features after Jesse dragged him down. 

_ Later _ is probably the better choice here.

He puts one foot in front of the other and doesn’t look back. 

He’s left with the nagging sense that maybe he leapt to a lot of conclusions. Which makes them all that much luckier that at least his hunch about the kill list was right, if so many of his others are wrong.

x.

Angie’s tech might as well be magic for all Jesse understands it. Hanzo’s up and walking within twenty-four hours, although anyone looking close enough could pick out the faintest limp. 

Hanzo’s surrounded most of the day. It reveals the truth of his statement to Jesse: he may be lonely in one way, but he certainly has made friends here. He seems fondly exasperated by the way Mei and Lena hover, inquiring after his needs like he’s not healing rapidly under the influence of Angie’s biotics. Jesse wants to ask too, but it’s pretty clear it’s not his place, so he sticks around long enough to hear Hanzo give an assurance he actually believes, then he makes himself scarce. 

It doesn’t take long to realize all the attention is wearing on Hanzo. It’s still not his place, but it's also such an easy problem to solve that he can’t quite resist. At lunchtime, Jesse’s in the kitchen digging supplies out of the fridge, listening to Mei insist she should carry Hanzo’s food to the table for him. 

“You know,” Jesse says to her, “I overheard Winston say he’s lookin’ for you. Don’t have a clue what all the jargon’s about, but it seemed pretty urgent.” 

Her eyes go wide and she apologizes rapidly to Hanzo, then she insists Jesse should help instead. That’s not exactly what he’s here for, but he agrees. 

As soon as she’s out of earshot, he hands Hanzo’s bowl to him, then he resumes making his sandwich. Hanzo stares, suspicion written into every line on his face, and Jesse bites back the urge to say something challenging. Instead he tries a smile and a shrug. “Looked like you could use a break from all the fuss.”

Surprise peeks out from the suspicious mask. Hanzo lets out a stiff thanks, then he’s gone. 

The limp fades quickly, and things return to normal. It’s just that now Jesse can see more of Hanzo than he did before: he has friends, and he smiles more than Jesse ever realized, and he doesn’t ever seem to look Jesse’s way.

Jesse thinks every day about the solitary sentence Hanzo wrote for him, and he tries not to let it get under his skin. Most days, it’s a losing battle. 

It still feels strange to return to his room without the notebooks to keep him company. He thumbs through some of the photos on his comm, but it’s not the same without the pages under his hands. His thumb hovers over one of the later letters. 

> _ Your hair is always unkempt. You have better things to do than worry about your hair, I am sure, but I am always tempted to touch it when it is like that. _
> 
> _ Perhaps I should buy you a comb to save us both. _
> 
> _ It is funny. There is only one way I wish to change you, and even that is merely an excuse to touch you the way I would like. _

Jesse scrubs a hand through his hair before he realizes he’s doing it, then he laughs softly to himself. The laugh still can’t shake off whatever’s coiling in his chest. If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel it: someone else’s fingers in his hair, carefully prying snarls out, the pads brushing along his scalp until it tingles. 

He falls asleep to that thought. 

The pang that accompanies him on waking makes him delete the photos he took. It doesn’t erase the words burned into his brain, but at least it can assuage temptation.

xi.

It gets easier. Hanzo doesn’t relax around him, exactly, but he does stop acting like Jesse’s trying to get something over on him. He’s more like his typical stiff and standoffish, and Jesse figures that’s the best they’re gonna do for a while. 

Then they get the mission assignment.

It’s nothing too out of the ordinary, except that Jesse’s assigned to stick by Hanzo’s side. They hole up in a musty hotel room with clean sight lines, and then they wait for the orders. 

Hour one is nothing but the two of them sitting in strained silence broken only by comm chatter intended for their teammates elsewhere. Hanzo sits so still that Jesse wonders if he fell asleep sitting up. Hour two is more or less the same, give or take a bathroom break to reveal that Hanzo is, in fact, awake.

In hour three, Jesse flops back onto the bed, and he stares at the ceiling and tries to ignore the restlessness building under his skin. He’s done this work before, but usually he’s alone or with someone willing to talk to pass the time. He’s got no idea what to do with Hanzo. 

At least from this angle he can see more than the back of Hanzo’s neck. He can almost see his full profile, his jaw framed by the meticulously shaped beard. His eyes are shut, a feathery fan of dark, dark lashes casting tiny shadows over the lines beneath. He looks tired, strained, and it’s hard to shake the sense that it’s Jesse’s fault somehow.

He also looks damn near edible. 

The thought hits Jesse like a ton of bricks. He’s never felt the observation so viscerally before. 

He sits up on the bed and rubs his own tired eyes, then he evacuates the bed altogether. Hanzo’s still in his head, and nothing makes that clearer than getting distracted on a mission because his partner — the guy who’s currently outright ignoring him, sitting so straight he’s gotta be aching by now — happens to be devastatingly hot. Jesse paces the small patch of floor available to him, then he decides he’s done with the silence.

“I don’t get you.” 

Hanzo’s shoulders stiffen minutely, but he doesn’t answer. 

“I really am sorry for snoopin’, but I’m not sorry it helped you, and I’m glad I learned what I did, actually—”

“Stop,” Hanzo barks, and Jesse’s mouth shuts so fast he feels his teeth clack together. “I told you I don’t want your pity.”

“And I told you it’s not pity. Why would you think—”

His name and Hanzo’s both crackle through the comm. _ “Targets inbound.” _

Jesse sighs and gets in position, thinking, _ later, later. _

Later comes, and so do Genji and Winston to escort them back to the drop ship. There’s no chance to get Hanzo alone on the flight. Jesse lets Angie look him over on the ship, and he tries not to watch too close when she does the same to Hanzo. 

He’s not successful. 

Hanzo watches her warily and pretends that he’s not, and she’s as cool and professional as can be. She leaves as quick as she can. It’s subtle, nothing anyone should notice unless they’re as invested as Jesse is, but Hanzo’s body seems to slump the moment her back is turned. 

Then he turns, and Jesse has to make himself look like he was busy doing anything but what he was actually doing. 

After they land, they debrief in the conference room. When it’s over, Hanzo’s slow getting out of there, and Jesse sees his opportunity.

He pushes past all the warnings in his mind insisting he shouldn’t, and he touches Hanzo’s arm. There’s a high chance Hanzo will hit him, but instead he goes stiff as a board before slowly turning to face Jesse. The others glance at them as they filter past, but nobody stops to ask questions. 

“Can I talk to you?” Jesse asks. 

Genji throws him the strangest look, but whatever he sees, even he keeps walking. Hanzo can’t — won’t — cause a scene with everyone so near. He’s frozen under Jesse’s hand, and stays that way even once they’re alone. 

“Five minutes,” Jesse insists. There’s a plea in his voice he wishes wasn’t there. “That’s all I’m askin’.” 

Hanzo’s eyes widen, searching his face before they cut down and to the side like some speck on the floor is suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. Jesse’s already put him through enough indignities, so he does his best not to think of the look as sullen. “Five minutes,” Hanzo agrees flatly.

He wouldn’t put it past Hanzo to have a mental countdown to the precise second, at which point he’ll cut the conversation off and go back to the cold shoulder, so Jesse talks fast. “Why are you avoiding me? _ Are _ you avoiding me?” 

Hanzo snorts. “No. I am not. We spend exactly as much time together as before, except for your recent attempts to ambush me.” Jesse feels his face fall just in time for Hanzo to glance up and catch it. He wishes he had more practice reading Hanzo, because too many things flicker across his expression for Jesse to have any idea what it could mean. “You said this is not pity. So what is it?”

“You’re not who I thought you were. Or— I didn’t give it enough thought before, and now I have, and I don’t like knowin’ all this about you without knowing _you_ too, and so I thought… I don’t know. I thought I’d make an effort?”

“An effort.”

“Yeah.”

“You say this is not pity. But you understand why it sounds like it, do you not?” There’s a strain there now, maybe a plea for Jesse to understand something else Hanzo doesn’t want to say. It’s just out of reach, pressing on the edges of his awareness. 

“I suppose. Don’t know how to make you believe it’s not. Don’t even really know why that’s the first conclusion you jumped to.” 

That doesn’t get a response, but it does get Hanzo looking at him, cautiously searching his face before he looks away again. “What is it you want, McCree?” The question is preceded by a soft, strange sound in Hanzo’s throat, and his tone isn’t unkind. 

The answer burns on the tip of Jesse’s tongue, but it feels too stupid to say out loud. He can feel the clock ticking in his head, and he forces himself to speak. “To get to know you.”

Hanzo makes that noise again. “Because of what I wrote.”

It feels like a trap even as Jesse answers, “Yes.”

“So you violate my privacy, read things that were not for you to read, and then you try to ambush me to discuss it even when I tell you I don’t want that. Because you want to _ get to know _me.” Hanzo lets out a frustrated huff. “If it isn’t pity, what is it? Some misplaced guilt? Surely you are not here to mock me.”

“Of course not.” It comes out in a rush. In some ways, Hanzo may be right about the guilt, but certainly not the rest, and Jesse still can’t fathom what he’s done that would bring Hanzo to any of those conclusions, except that Jesse himself can’t come up with any better way to explain what he’s doing or what he wants.

Hanzo’s got his jaw clenched tight again, and there’s a red stain across his cheeks that’s got equal chances of being anger or embarrassment. Jesse’d put his money on the latter though. He knew this was humiliating before now, but he’s been running roughshod over Hanzo’s every effort to save face. Belatedly, he realizes he’s been going about this all wrong. Not that he’s had any better options, considering Hanzo’s refusal to discuss the issue at all, but still, he might’ve considered that he keeps rubbing salt in a wound Hanzo’s trying to heal.

He’s been pushing, trying to force it, because he’s been eager to get to a point where it doesn’t feel quite so fucking weird to have this much of Hanzo in his head, without thinking at all what that might be like on the other end. Especially for someone like Hanzo. Especially for someone who’s convinced Jesse’s operating out of pity, no matter how many times Jesse’s assured him that’s not the case. No matter how much Jesse thinks that’s absurd. It’s not just that Jesse has no reason to pity him; he can’t come up with any reason anyone in his shoes should.

The only person who’d have even a half decent cause for pity would be Angie. Because she’s the one Hanzo—

Jesse’s brain trips over the thought, static crowding in for a moment before the revelation hits. Hanzo’s staring at some place just beyond Jesse’s ear now, but he too seems to realize something has shifted. 

He could be wrong. Again. But Hanzo’s only even standing in this room — enduring something he’s given every signal is both embarrassing and exhausting — because Jesse asked him to. He’s been talking like Jesse knows things that he doesn’t — or didn’t. It’s not like Jesse’s memorized every letter word for word, but he can’t think of a single one that categorically proves he’s not the subject. 

Hell, he even had that thought, however fleeting, however much he confused it for bias or some sort of wish fulfillment, back when he was reading them. 

He doesn’t want to assume, because that’s what got him here in the first place, but he knows the answer even before he asks, “Who were those letters for? The ones with no name.”

Hanzo looks startled, then like he’s forgotten how to breathe. It takes him a moment to collect himself, and Jesse watches him do it with open fascination. It’s impressive, like watching someone put up a wall brick by brick. “You know the answer to that.” His voice is rough, but the tone isn’t.

“Yeah,” Jesse says stupidly, unable to come up with anything more articulate. Whatever reserves Hanzo drew on before are slowly dwindling, because his face seems to grow more tired the longer the silence hangs between them. Jesse doesn’t know what he wants to say, and even if he did, the words won’t come. They’re all stuck in his throat, trapped there by the force of his epiphany.

He’s not used to feeling helpless, but there’s nothing he can think to say, no way to speak it if he could think it, and there’s nothing he can do when Hanzo’s face finally falls and he announces, “Your five minutes are over.”

To his credit, Hanzo’s braver than Jesse is. He lingers for a moment, searching Jesse’s face one last time before he makes up his mind. Then Hanzo’s gone, and Jesse’s left standing there like a goddamn idiot.

xii.

Hanzo wasn’t avoiding Jesse before, but now he most definitely is. Jesse can’t find it in himself to blame him for it, but it’s frustrating as hell when all he wants is to try to talk to him again. 

The irony isn’t lost on him that he’s finally noticing Hanzo’s absences now that he wants him around. He can’t yet define what else it is he wants, but he knows that much. 

Not that he’d know what to say, exactly. What are you supposed to say when someone’s all-but-admitted they think they’re in love with you, and the best you’ve offered is that you want to get to know them better?

All he can do is make space. Look the other way when Hanzo quietly slips out of any room Jesse’s just entered. Let Hanzo lick his wounds while Jesse figures out his own head. 

Hope that door’s still open if and when Jesse gets his shit together and wants it. Hope it’s closed if he doesn’t.

Hanzo said before that he didn’t care what was fair, but it sits wrong with Jesse. Unfairness always has, and it does now too, because he knows things about Hanzo that nobody else is supposed to know, and he’s burdened with carrying that inside his head but isn’t allowed to return any of it. Restore some of the balance between them. 

Even if he was ready to lay it all bare, it’s not like Hanzo’s going to let him. 

The solution, just like his last epiphany, hits him hard and fast, leaves him floundering and astonished at his own previous stupidity.

xiii.

It takes two glasses of hard liquor and one cigar he’s practically chewed his way through, but he finally manages to begin.

> _ I figured you already spilled enough of your secrets. Here are some of mine: _
> 
> _ I’m a writer too. Not letters, usually. You’re probably better at that than I am. But I have a pen name, and I write. Mostly politics, sometimes culture and travel stuff. Sometimes I like to flatter myself thinking my friends have read it. If you want to go find my blog or any of my articles, it’s Joel Morricone. You’re one of five people in the whole world who know that, so keep it to yourself. I have to make a legitimate living somehow. _
> 
> _ I tell everybody my parents died in the Crisis. Keeps people from looking too deep. Really, they’re retired on the same farm Reyes moved them to fifteen years ago. Some other people knew that, too, but you’re probably the only one left alive who does. _
> 
> _ It’s been over twenty years since I’ve seen them though. For all I know, they think I’m dead and the guy on the wanted poster just shares a name and a passing resemblance. There’s a story there, but I think I’d rather tell that one in person. Or at least not in _ _ this _ _ letter. _
> 
> _ What else? _
> 
> _ I’m a year younger than my paperwork says. _
> 
> _ I worked black ops so long sometimes it’s easier to believe the lies I’ve told about myself than remember the truth. _
> 
> _ I have bank accounts under four different names. _
> 
> _ I can’t decide if it’s worse that I used to dream about the people I’ve killed or that I don’t any more. _
> 
> _ I’ve never been in love. I’ve gone through the motions a few times. I know what it should look like. I like to think I was pretty good at it, but I didn’t feel it. _
> 
> _ But I can tell you what I know I want in a person: Smart. Confident. Good at the job. (They have to be in the job or something like it. How the fuck do you explain what we do to anyone else?) Optimistic enough to keep going. Cynical enough they don’t drive me crazy with their rose-colored glasses. At least as stubborn as I am. Lets me take care of them too. _
> 
> _ I don’t know. It’s hard to turn it all into some kind of itemized list, isn’t it? But I hope some of it sounds familiar to you. Maybe it’s not on the wishlist, but I like that you’re kind of mean too. And it’s hard to even think of the list now without picturing your face. (Not for nothing, but it’s a nice face.) _
> 
> _ And I didn’t think that hard about it all before I found your notebooks, and I’m sorry I had to learn everything I did that way. I should have given you a chance before that. Because if I had, I might have figured out a lot sooner that you could say all the things to me I always wished somebody would. _
> 
> _ Maybe that’s selfish, I don’t know, but it matters to me, and I think it matters to you too. Even if you’re sick to death of me after all of this, you should know you have something to offer somebody. _
> 
> _ And if you still want to offer that to me, I meant what I said about getting to know each other better. We can do that. As friends, if you want, or more. Your call, but for what it’s worth, I prefer the more. _

He pauses, pen hovering over the page. There are still too many thoughts clamoring to be let out, and yet he figures that if he keeps writing, it will only show Hanzo how jumbled his head really is. He’s feeling cowardly enough as it is; he worries if he makes too big a mess of it, he’ll never send it, and that’s not the point. It might be meant to replicate one of Hanzo’s letters, but this one’s meant to be read.

> _ I can wait. I can give you all the time and space you need. No need to avoid me. I promise. _

He stabs the pen down a little too hard, and instead of his name, he writes, _ You know who this is. _

It takes another drink for him to screw up the nerve to do something with the letter. At first he thinks he should rewrite it — there are a dozen places he’s scratched things out, scribbled in the margins, edited as he went along — but in the end he thinks fair’s fair. He got to see Hanzo’s raw drafts. Hanzo can have his as-is too.

He folds it up, and fully embracing the liquid courage, he’s out of his room and taking unsteady steps toward Hanzo’s. He’s never tried passing notes in the Watchpoint before. He’s not sure he’s tried passing notes since he dropped out of high school, actually. But he discovers that it’s not as easy as he anticipated: these doors don’t have a crack large enough to shove anything under. 

While he’s shuffling his feet and debating the merits of simply taping the letter to Hanzo’s door or having Athena’s drones deliver it some other time, there’s a quiet hiss and the door opens in front of him. Whatever he’s expecting, his presently addled brain is not prepared for the sight of Hanzo, shirtless and sleep mussed and staring him down like he’s lost his mind. Which he may have, more or less. 

“What are you doing?” Hanzo hisses.

Jesse does his best to match the whisper. “I brought you something. Well. It’s for you, but I wasn’t gonna be here when you got it.” He gestures between the two of them and mutters, “Space.”

Hanzo carefully plucks the letter from his hand. Their fingers don’t touch, and it makes Jesse’s chest hurt. 

“It’s a letter,” Jesse says helpfully.

“Are you drunk right now?”

“No, but I might’ve needed a little help.” The sense that Hanzo thinks Jesse’s lost his marbles is only increasing, but he does let out a funny sound Jesse thinks could be the start of a laugh. “So you can read that. Or not, I guess, but I’d prefer it if you did. And I will be, y’know, around, if you have thoughts about it.” He winces. “I really, really wasn’t expecting to have to explain this yet.”

This time Hanzo snorts, although he still looks cautious. “Clearly.” It’s hard to say what Hanzo’s thinking, but he’s looking at the letter like it might bite him, which Jesse suspects he sort of deserves. 

“I’ll let you get to that, then. Or whatever it is you were gonna do.” He’s proud that he kept his eyes on Hanzo’s face. “Goodnight.”

xiv.

He doesn’t drink any more that night, just in case, but it’s not like Hanzo comes knocking anyway. Jesse could cave to the temptation to get shitfaced, and it wouldn’t matter. 

It’s probably for the better, though, because he wakes with the twinges of a headache he knows could be worse. The ache pulses in time with a rhythmic knocking, which takes him too long to realize is at his door. He winces as he calls out to give him a minute, because he’s not going to take the chance that it’s either a mission or Hanzo without brushing his teeth first.

When he finally opens the door, he finds Hanzo on the other side. He’s holding two cups of coffee. “I thought you could use this after the night you had,” he says with a tiny smirk that feels like the sun finally peeking out of the clouds. Jesse accepts the drink with more gratitude than is probably necessary for a single cup of coffee, then Hanzo asks, “May I come in?”

“Please.” Jesse thinks he might be staring, but he honestly wasn’t expecting Hanzo to respond first thing in the morning, or to come bearing caffeine, or to want to talk in Jesse’s room, so he thinks he ought to be forgiven. 

Hanzo pulls the letter free from his pocket, and it’s a lot more worn than Jesse remembers it being last night. “I read it. Several times,” he adds with a faint flush. “And then I read your blog. It’s, ah, very good, although I think we are going to have to agree to disagree on certain matters.”

“Like what?”

Hanzo stops short. “Do you really want to discuss how _ very _ vehemently I disagree with your attitude toward organizational hierarchies right now?”

“Yes, but if there’s somethin’ more important—”

“I want to thank you for watering my plants. And to know what you meant by ‘more’.” Hanzo’s cheeks turn that charming shade of pink again. “When you wrote—”

“I know what I wrote.” 

“That is a relief,” Hanzo says dryly. “So, more?”

Jesse can’t stop the smile as he starts to explain, and by the time he’s finished, he’s given them both cause to be grateful he thought to brush his teeth.

**Author's Note:**

> Update: [YourAverageJoke](https://twitter.com/youraveragejoke) made [a gorgeous comic page](https://twitter.com/YourAverageJoke/status/1192355023654662145?s=20) for this fic that you should definitely go check out!


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